Baker's Dozen
Leah Cutter
Copyright 2011 by Leah R Cutter
This version published by Knotted Road Press
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Table Of Contents
Introduction
I don't know where the crazy idea came from about writing thirteen short stories in thirteen weeks. I think it came about, in part, because I counted how many weeks there were between when I was looking for my next writing project and the end of the year. I wanted to do some sort of writing and I was burned out on novels. Writing a short story a week meant I could leap from one new!shiny! idea to the next.
I've loved doing this project. It's been challenging as well as a great learning experience. As a writer I hope I'm always growing and learning. That's what a large part of this project has been for me. This was also an opportunity for me to experiment with writing styles, voices, settings and concepts.
Leah R Cutter
December 2011
Hell By Any Other Name
I woke up from my nightmare sitting straight up in bed. If I could sweat, I'd be drenched. If I had a heart, it would have been beating hard in my chest. If I could breathe, I would have been gasping.
I'd been dreaming of Hell, of course. Most ghosts, if they admit to sleeping, dream of Hell. It was why we were ghosts. That door to the Beyond wasn't full of pearly gates and choirs of angels. No, it was fire, heat and chaos.
There were a few ghosts who stayed on Earth even though they were promised Heaven. They were all nuts.
I pressed my hands against my eyes, as if I could shut the images out and wipe them away. No luck. I groaned. Quietly. I didn't want any more complaints from Mrs. H— downstairs about unearthly noises. I was lucky enough to be able to rent a place outside Ghosttown, to live among the living. Even if it was little more than a glorified closet, with only a skinny, single bed and two stacks of crates holding a door across them that served as my desk. Dark water stains marred the formerly white walls, while mysterious lines crossed the ceiling, shadows of discontent.
The only bright spot was Betsy, my camera, sitting in her corner of the desk. Most of what a ghost sees is muted, grayed, behind the veil still. Betsy always appeared red and glowing, as if a warm heart beat behind her dark lens.
That was all my room contained—one of the advantages of being a ghost. No need to cook or use a bathroom. You couldn't really change your appearance, and since you didn't actually have a body, well, nothing in, nothing out. We still needed rest, though. The brain needed time off to process.
I looked at the clock. Two in the afternoon. I caught myself before I groaned again. Flames of Hell still licked behind my eyes if I closed them. There was no more sleep for me that day, though I didn't usually rise until sunset.
I slid aside the heavy drape covering the window, exposing an inch of daylight. I was in luck. Another rainy Seattle day greeted me. I decided to go to Volunteer Park. Might even go to Lakewood Cemetery. Not because I wanted to greet the newly dead: there was a committee for that. Or even to look at the portals, to see if they'd changed. I didn't believe those myths, that I might somehow do enough good that I'd earn Heaven.
No, it was merely a matter of wanting some company of my own kind. I hated to admit it, but sometimes I got lonely. I rose and walked out into the gray haze of the day, the rain sliding through me as if I wasn't really there.
I always thought of it as a cleansing, inside and out, though I knew I'd never really feel clean.
* * *
December 21st, 2012 hadn't been the end of the world, only the Great Unraveling. The veils between the Seen and Unseen worlds shredded.
The living suddenly discovered they weren't alone.
Luckily for our side, we had a lot of lawyers. The Interspecies Act passed relatively quickly for Congress, guaranteeing the rights of the dead and others.
Of course, law and practice were often worlds apart. Seattle had one of the stronger lobbies, though. I praised their work again as I got on the bus, the new card system beeping when I passed my hand over it, automatically deducting my fare. I'd hated walking everywhere before.
The bus was mostly empty. A homeless man slumped on a seat next to the back door, arms wrapped firmly around his pack; two students sat next to each other madly texting, probably to each other; and a professionally dressed man with round glasses and a briefcase on his lap sat stiffly in his seat. He stared straight ahead, his face frozen.
As if he'd seen a ghost.
I almost sat next to him, but I'm not generally that vengeful. It's part of what ghosts do, though, scare the living, whether we mean to or not. The ghosts who get off on it were also the ones who, as kids, pulled the wings off flies, and as adults fired people for a living, know what I mean?
Instead, I swayed as the bus turned another corner and sat in the back, looking out the window and watching the gray day slide by. I could have gone out in the sunshine. Sometimes I enjoyed seeing the world brightly lit, even though it didn't seem as vivid as when I'd been alive. I missed the feeling of warmth, though. And intense sunlight made ghosts less substantial. People no longer saw me. Instead of trying to avoid me, they stepped through me. There was no feeling more wrenching than your former intestines momentarily misplaced.
The man with the briefcase got off at the same stop I did. Didn't think anything of it, as he walked straight ahead when I turned left, into the park. I walked up the winding hill, sticking to the sidewalk, not wanting to take a chance on slipping on the wet grass. Red, orange and yellow leaves lay scattered across the green lawn. I remembered, when I was still alive, how colorful the fall leaves were, how a gray day made them seem more vivid. Dying cast a fog on everything. Nothing was as clear as it used to be. The edges weren't as crisp, the colors, more muted.
I looked through the black donut sculpture at downtown and the Space Needle, and then walked around the reservoir—I'd been alive when it had still been full of water, one of the last open reservoirs in all of Washington. Now it was just a thin pond full of fat koi, algae and bird droppings. Finally, I decided to head north to the cemetery. Walking along the avenue of beechnut trees I saw the man from the bus again. This time he stared straight at me. The hand holding his briefcase was clenched tightly, almost white. With a determined stride, he drew closer. "Andrew Cullen?"
"How do you know my name?"
"I need your help."
My mouth must have been gaping because I closed it with a snap. "I only work during business hours," I told him sharply.
"But—"
"If you know my name you already know the address of my office."
I turned on my heel and deliberately walked through the nearest tree.
Of course, I appeared on the far side of it. While it was unpleasant for me, I've been told it was distinctly unsettling for the living.
I walked without pause to the cemetery. Only paid professionals among the living ever went there anymore. New memorial parks had sprung up, where the living could go to honor their dead. As a result, cemeteries were one of the safest places on earth. I'd heard stories of more than one attempted robbery or rape ended when the victim fled to a graveyard.
Ghosts could be very vengeful.
Most people avoided them, though, because of the portals, the doors to Heaven or Hell that surround the places of the dead.
The living saw them differently, as shadows, or else they felt them when they walked too close, a chill that went through bones and into the soul. The doors weren't meant for them. Some got glimpses, though, of their afterlife, whether it was angels or seventy-eight virgins or a blessed nothing. The living couldn't pass through. Whatever they saw was disturbing enough they rarely ventured near.
One of the good things about the portals showing up: all the mass graves were suddenly findable, even in the middle of the jungle. A murderer now had to be very careful where they stashed a body. Portals stuck around even after a soul went through.
Like all ghosts, I found myself drawn to them frequently. We were meant to go through. But some could ignore the siren's call better than others.
Flamed licked out of the nearest portal, drawing my attention. A black, churning cloud boiled beyond the burning edges. The only time I felt heat was near that fire. There wasn't a smell of sulfur, or cries of the damned. Just fire I knew would burn my ectoplasmic flesh, and a chasm that would chew up my soul until there was nothing left.
In an abstract manner I admired the contrast between the comforting trees of the park, the dramatic gray of the clouds, and the shooting flames dancing in the portal. I took another step forward, then another, fascinated against my will.
Maybe if I stared long enough a pattern would form. Maybe I could find a path through the darkness into the light.
Maybe if I wished hard enough, I, too, could grow wings and fly.
I stopped myself in time, before I stepped through, as I always did.
That Hell was not for me.
* * *
I wasn't surprised when the guy with the briefcase sat waiting for me in my tiny office in Ghosttown. The door was unlocked, and the living couldn't or wouldn't touch most of the artifacts in the room.
Still, I looked around carefully to make sure nothing had been disturbed. Fixed papers and notebooks sat stacked in neat piles on the rickety desk. The beat-up file cabinet in the corner, which I kept not only locked but charmed, stood untouched.
The natural artifacts I'd found—rocks, keys, broken rings, dried flowers and other knick knacks—covered the shelves of the cinder block-and-board bookcase that ran along the one wall, exactly in the same pattern I'd left them. Each of them held a spark of something: life, Heaven, energy, I didn't know. All ghosts collected these things. Fixers, those among the living with one foot in the world of the dead, claimed to use them sometimes to create artifacts, those things that have been dragged far enough out of the Seen world that ghosts could use them, like Betsy, my camera. Other Fixers said it was a lot of hooey.
Me, I just felt better with them surrounding me.
The guy sat stiffly in the guest chair next to the desk. I had to walk past him to get to my own large captain's chair. I made sure to walk by closely, so he could feel the chill that all ghosts emanate.
"What can I help you with, Mr. . ."
"Potter," he provided. "Harry Potter."
"You're joking, right?"
"My parents were—whimsical."
Though Mr. Potter wore round glasses similar to his namesake that was where the likeness ended. He looked more like a Danish architect, with perfect blond hair, starched shirt, a classic, thin, blue tie and charcoal suit.
"So what can I do for you, Mr. Potter?" I picked up the cracked glass fountain pen I kept on the desk and twirled it in my fingers. I'd been a smoker as a young man, and though the ability had disappeared when I'd died, the cravings hadn't.
"Have you heard of Disruption stones?"
"Of course." Every ghost had. Supposedly, they were strong enough to disrupt your fate: if you threw one into a portal, it would change from an image of Hell to Heaven.
"Mine was stolen. I want you to get it back," Mr. Potter said primly.
I couldn't help it. I had to laugh. "First off, why would I believe you? They're just myths. Next, even if I did believe you, why would you come to a ghost to retrieve it? Why wouldn't I just take it for myself?"
"Most of the myths about them aren't true," Mr. Potter explained. His voice took on a lecturing tone. "They're manufactured, not found, or mined. They must be Fixed to an individual, like an artifact. They're horribly expensive, both in time and materials. Like an artifact, only a ghost can touch one. However, only the ghost of the person it's been made for can use it."
"So, someone stole something useless from you," I stated, still not believing him.
For the first time, Mr. Potter showed a streak of anger. "More myths," he said darkly. "Some people erroneously believe they can re-Fix the stone. That a strong enough Fixer can realign it. They're wrong, of course. The thief will destroy it by attempting to change the Fixing."
"Mr. Potter, I investigate missing people, or cheating husbands or wives. I collect evidence for the court. I don't specialize in artifacts. There are others who do. Let me recommend—"
"I don't want them. I want you. I investigated you. Thoroughly."
"Really," I said with my driest voice. I had practiced the tone, working to keep out the ghostly overtones.
Mr. Potter only paled slightly, so I thought I'd mostly succeeded.
"You were a cop—"
"Detective," I growled.
Mr. Potter swallowed then continued. "Detective. With an impressive close rate."
"Not all of those cases were closed cleanly." The Interspecies Act had ensured that the dead weren't necessarily prosecuted for crimes committed while living.
Lots of lawyers on our side.
"You also go that extra mile now," Mr. Potter added. "A very satisfied client list."
"A confidential list of clients," I said, glancing again at my locked file cabinet. Two weeks prior I had noticed something off when I'd come in, as if the locking spell had started to slide. I'd assumed at the time that the spell for shocking anything that physically touched the metal had worn off and I just needed the building Witch to reapply it.
I couldn't be paranoid enough, it seemed.
"People talk," Mr. Potter said with a fake smile. "Particularly with the right monetary incentive."
I bristled. "And you think that will work with me?"
"Triple your normal fee? Yes, I do."
"I won't be bought." Criminals had discovered that early, and I'd carried the habit into the afterlife.
"I'm not asking you to do anything wrong or illegal. Merely retrieve an artifact that's mine and has been stolen from me."
"Why should I take your word that it's yours?"
"Here's the name of the ghost who stole it," Mr. Potter said. "And the man who paid her." He slid a piece of paper across the desk.
I only recognized the first name. Toni Hermino. Beautiful Italian immigrant. She'd been a thief when she'd been alive, specializing in exotic gems and jewelry. Now that she'd passed over, she focused on artifacts and art.
"Go talk with her. Verify my story. Check me out as well. As an extra incentive, when you return the stone, I'll share the list of ingredients needed to make a Disruption stone for yourself."
I scoffed. "Just the cash is fine." I didn't believe in this mythical stone. Mr. Potter obviously did. He was also obviously an intelligent businessman, not given to flights of fancy. Either someone has snowed him good, or there was actually something to this myth.
"I'll pay Toni a visit," I said grudgingly. "But that's all I'm agreeing to do for now."
"Wonderful," Mr. Potter said, his smile full of teeth.
Fortunately for me, he wasn't the only one with a bite.
* * *
The Haunting Hour art gallery didn't open until midnight, of course. I spent the time at one of the Fixed terminals in the library, cruising the electronic highway that ran easily through the Seen and Unseen worlds, investigating Mr. Potter and his nemesis. The three other terminals were empty, their screens glowing with that odd, half light of the almost there. Though the living still manned the desks, mostly ghosts wandered between the stacks, seeking treasures they'd missed in their youth, answers for their unending existence.
Mr. Potter, I learned, worked as a long-term investment banker for the dead. Believe me, there was no one more committed to long term than a ghost with no fear of dying. He'd done well for himself—nice craftsman on the top of Queen Anne hill, second cottage out on the San Juan Islands. Divorced, no kids, mother in a very expensive, private nursing home. No charges, no official investigations, not even a letter of complaint.
Squeaky clean.
Something about him still set my ectoplasm crawling.
I arrived at the gallery soon after it opened. The long windows cast brilliant light out onto the dark street. More people than I'd expected clomped across its hardwood floors: some sort of open house. The living walked in groups of two or three, clutching wine glasses and making hushed commentary.
I wouldn't call the images on the walls art. The drive to create such things, that passion, belonged solely with the living. This was a facade. To me, every piece looked the same, like chalkboards badly cleaned, with squiggling green, glowing lines drifting across them. As a line crossed a boundary of a piece, it turned into smoke and dissipated.
There were very few ghosts who were once artists: no matter their destination, anything was better than a pale existence.
Toni chatted with two guests, accepting their studied praise for the show and the artist. I waited patiently as Toni drew pledges of donations from them for a dubious charity.
I didn't say anything or try to warn them away. I wasn't a detective anymore, and as ghost, it was hard to make a living.
"So, paisano, what can I do for you this wicked evening?" Toni smiled like she meant it. She'd probably been stunning when she'd been alive. Now, she was as pale as all of us, her beautiful dress just a shade different than her skin, still clinging to nice curves and shapely calves accentuated with high heels.
"Just checking on a rumor," I told her. "A myth."
"Myth? You? I thought polizia were only concerned with facts. "
I didn't bother to correct her assumption. Once a cop, always a cop. "Sometimes disproving something is as important," I said smoothly.
Toni cocked an eyebrow at me.
Maybe not that smooth.
"I've heard—rumors—that maybe a precious stone was removed from a magician's house. Care to comment?"
"Ah. If, perhaps, I knew of the possibility of such a thing, how would you show your appreciation?"
I pressed my lips together and rocked back on my heels. I'd expected Toni to deny everything.
It meant she wanted to tell me something.
A too-human laugh interrupted my thoughts. We both looked at the source then looked away.
The dead rarely laughed.
"A favor," I said, rolling the dice. "Big or small. Some future claim."
"Interesting," Toni said, but she was already nodding. "Yes. A future favor it is."
Toni grew pensive and stepped forward, her voice a hitching whisper. I easily caught it, while anyone living would draw away from the sibilant, haunting tones.
"A precious stone, like what you're asking about, if it exists, would be cold, so cold. A little piece, like that," she said, holding up her fingers and indicating a mere inch. "Very heavy." Her eyes took on a distant look. "It was—it would not—be right. Not natural. Not good."
Toni glanced up at me, out of the corner of her eye. "Removing such a thing from its owner might not be bad, no?" She ended with a shrug.
I shrugged back. "Depends on who got it next. What they plan to do with it."
At that, Toni smiled. "Such a person might be very arrogant. They might think they can change the nature of the thing. They'll just destroy it. No harm done."
"What if someone was hired to bring the stone back to the magician?"
"I would call him a fool," Toni said coldly.
When I said nothing, Toni nodded her head once sharply. "I have guests waiting," she told me, looking away.
"Thank you." I turned and headed toward the door, ignoring the whispering humans.
"The magician's castle—" Toni called from behind me.
I paused.
"It's more dangerous than the rest."
When nothing else seemed to be forth coming I nodded my thanks and left, walking out of the brightly lit gallery and into the dark of the street. Of course the night didn't hide me, no, here I was more visible. I had my own glow, like all ghosts after midnight.
I wished I could change my clothes, somehow. Pull up my collar. Tug on my sleeves. Something to give myself a sense of protection.
I didn't want to go through with this job. Mr. Potter was a snake. I knew I should walk away before he stuck his fangs in me.
However, I couldn't shake the feeling that something else was going on. A bigger game.
This part of the magician's story had checked out. Now it was time to go see the arrogant man.
* * *
Mr. A—, short for arrogant, as Toni had so aptly named him, lived only a few blocks away from Mr. Potter, even higher on Queen Anne hill. A quaint, brick wall separated the yard from the sidewalk, while the yard's sloping incline separated the house from its neighbors, giving it the impression of a feudal castle snubbing those beneath it. It was done in pseudo-Tudor style, with wide, dark planks separating the white stucco. More than one gable peered darkly over the expanse, sticking out from the steeply slanted roof.
The garden was immaculate, of course, the hedges trimmed with tweezers and the grass probably not merely cut, but each blade filed to a precise angle.
Ghosts generally hung out in one or two places in a house like Mr. A—'s: up in the attic, snuggled into the rafters and listening to the rain, or deep in the cellars.
I'd brought Betsy with me this trip. Generally, I only used her for photographing cheating husbands or stealthy wives, but Betsy had other talents as well.
The Fixer I'd used for Betsy had been new to the business. She'd had to try more than once to bring Betsy "over" so that I could use her. She'd spent a lot of energy, and hadn't charged me much money, because neither of us had realized what she'd done until much later.
She'd made Betsy into a spectralgraph.
As easily as I took pictures of humans, I could also take pictures of things, like houses or cars, something manufactured, and see any residual spectral effect.
I took pictures of the houses next to Mr. A—'s first. I needed to make sure there wasn't any environmental influence. I seemed to be in luck. This part of the hill hadn't been declared holy, or contained an ancient burial mound. If it had, every house in the vicinity would have a low-level spectral reading.
Then I took a picture of Mr. A—'s place.
It was lit up like the Castro district on Halloween.
Which meant either it was ghost central, or it housed not a few, but an entire museum's worth of powerful artifacts. As I hadn't seen another ghost anywhere on the street, I had to assume the latter.
Caution told me to wait until broad daylight, when I could approach the house unseen, hidden by the sun.
I told caution where to stick it and climbed the stairs up to the house. That was when I had my first big shock.
The house was Sealed.
Not just the doors and windows locked, no. Every bit of folklore, both the things that did and didn't work, were employed around the perimeter. A band of salt, at least half a foot wide, had been drawn in a circle around the property. Rowan branches rested on every windowsill. Ba Gua mirrors hung over the door. Bottle trees flush with blessings and curses were planted every few feet.
Why the Hell hadn't Toni warned me about this place?
I slowly circled the house, counter clockwise, seeking a crack in its protection.
Nada.
In the back, where the neighbors couldn't see, additional protections lay: a sticky rope web that had been Fixed. Dancing spectral lights guaranteed to confuse the more weak willed. Running water from a fountain rolled past half the house, like an old fashioned moat.
I had no idea if the house held just as much protection against the living as well. I had to assume it did. I also had to assume that the security cameras mounted every few feet had also been Fixed and were now tracking me.
I had to get out of there before they released their equivalent of Hell hounds.
The moat drew me back. The flowing water had to come from somewhere, a pump, deep inside. It wasn't a naturally flowing spring. Down, underground, it was being recycled. The circle would be broken, there.
A light came on, shining out a second story window above me.
Without thinking, I sank down, into the ground.
* * *
Scientists who have studied the phenomenon have reported that ghosts take on different shapes underground. Some become snakelike, others, more of an amorphous blob.
Me, I've always felt as though I grew round, with a hard skin, like a ping-pong ball. I didn't lose myself or any consciousness, but I know I was very different underground than above it.
Black dirt slid easily around my compact form. Roots parted before me like a tangled curtain. An earthworm blindly kept pace with me as I burrowed through the rich loam.
I couldn't see anything, not in a human sense, with eyes. I was as sightless as the worm. But I sensed that sliver of a crack before me, like a door just barely ajar, its light spilling out into the darkness. It drew me like the sun draws a seedling, that single bright spot in the unending night.
Coldness bracketed me as I eased inside, my natural form tumbling into shape. I stood, stretched, imagining my vertebrae cracking in relief, though I didn't feel anything, actually. I almost groaned, but stopped myself just in time.
The room I'd landed in had piles of boxes against the walls. One of the bottom ones had broken open, crushed by the weight of the boxes on top of it. Its spilled contents had disturbed the delicate chalk lines drawn across the floor, a gypsy sigil to keep out the undead.
I skirted the edges of the drawing, pressed up next to the boxes. Whoever had drawn this had known what they were doing. When I reached the door I snapped a couple of pictures of it with Betsy. Someone, somewhere probably knew how to break this one from our side.
The hall I stepped into was as plain as the room I'd just come from. It had been recently painted, with a yellowed linoleum floor and rooms lining it. If I'd been thorough, I would have looked in each, taken pictures of the spells I was sure I'd find there.
But the room at the end hummed with power. I didn't need Betsy's eye to tell me powerful artifacts lay behind it.
Ghosts looked the same, felt the same, every damn day of their existence.
Drawing closer to this room, the hairs on the back of my neck rose up. An actual shiver went down my spine.
It was too seductive for words.
I walked straight through the door into the room without another thought.
Of course, a sigil lay just on the other side. I'd blundered right into it. Caught like an ant in amber, I couldn't move, couldn't sink into the ground or mist away. I was held right there until someone came and freed me.
I tried to compose myself. A security camera had turned deliberately toward me and held me in its sight. Might as well see what was here. Shelves held row after row of artifacts and Fixed items. I didn't recognize any of them, just felt their power. I looked for a stone, anything that might have felt "heavy" or "cold" but nothing struck me that way. Or rather, no stone did. There was a doll's hand that felt "off" to me, and some brown, curled leaves that shifted as if unseen bugs crawled over and under them.
I ignored the first twinge I felt in the center of my back. I was still too busy gawking like some damn tourist.
The second one came with the wonderment of pain.
How was that happening to me? I looked down at the lines drawn in raised chalk. The design appeared to be a standard Chinese holding spell.
Another pain wracked me, this time starting in my gut.
Only then did I notice the second artifact that had swung in my direction when I'd stumbled in. At first I mistook it for a camera, but no, it was actually some kind of gun.
Like the Disruption stones, rumors of these sorts of things had been around forever, some sort of technology that could be used to banish a ghost.
I struggled wildly then, trying to get free. I'd been banished before. It wasn't fun.
This time it wasn't the abrupt pain of being shoved from the world. No. This was a pulling, like being quartered with Clydesdales, slowly but inevitably tearing each limb off and away.
I bellowed, shrieked and moaned, causing the very foundation of the house to shake, but to no avail.
I was torn asunder.
* * *
I became corporeal, or at least, a ghost again, in the graveyard where my bones lay buried.
Betsy, of course, was gone.
All the portals sprang up, showing images of flame and chaos as I rose. I ignored them and the false comfort of light they provided in the darkness. They looked less out of place than the sign for the cemetery itself. Who puts a flashing, neon time and date sign at the entrance of a graveyard?
Buses had long stopped running, and no cab would ever pick up a ghost. I started the long walk back downtown. I longed for a cigarette, anything to break the monotony of walking. Though I could move more quickly than the living, it was still going to take a damn long time.
I thought about my options as I trudged back to the city.
Go back to Mr. A—'s and retrieve Betsy. Not practical. Probably not possible. But I'd miss her. She'd been my only touchstone in this existence.
Find Mr. Potter and tell him I'd failed. Then I'd be out my fee, as well as my camera.
I couldn't think how Toni might be able to help. She'd already warned me. I didn't have a thing she wanted, I was certain. And I already owed her a debt. I certainly couldn't pay her to go steal Betsy back for me.
With the sun rising, Hell's bells sounding in the blazing light, I was too tired to think anymore. I went back to my room instead, collapsing on my bed and hoping that something besides nightmares would come in my sleep.
This time I dreamed of being banished and never able to come back, floating amorphous above the graveyard, like a lonely cloud.
I can't say it was an improvement over dreaming about Hell.
* * *
By midafternoon I finally decided I'd had enough of pretending to sleep. I was still no closer to a plan of action. Mr. A—, of the impenetrable house, still had the Disruption stone, and given the number and strength of the other artifacts he had, I was almost ready to believe that myth.
And now he had Betsy. Her usual seat on my desk looked naked without her. This place was still a dump, barely room to walk, a mere mattress on a rusted iron frame, but it was where I hung my hat, and Betsy made it, if not home, at least mine.
I knew Mr. A— would have either fixed the crack in his defenses, or he would have widened it, placing a trap on the other side.
That didn't stop me from going back there when I realized that the clouds had burned away, leaving miles of blue sky and bright light.
After a bus ride of being trampled on and brushed through I felt exhausted and out of place. I didn't stop my groan when I looked up that steep hill I was going to have to climb. It wouldn't be physically tiring, not as it might have been when I'd been alive. It took will, though, and I'd been pushing myself for a while.
The sound shone blue beneath the hill, boats and ships, large and small, skimming across it. Wind I couldn't feel swirled the dried leaves on the sidewalk. I couldn't smell the air, but I knew it would be crisp and clean.
The fake Tudor house looked the same as the night before: dark windows, perfect lawn, graceful walk—
—that led to a gaping open front door.
I told myself it was my former detective instincts kicking in. Mr. A— was far too paranoid to leave his front door open. Something had to be wrong.
Honestly, though, I just wanted a way into that house.
I raced up the path, flowing as fast as the wind, when Mr. Potter stepped across the threshold. He shook hands with Mr. A—, the pair of them laughing.
I couldn't help my low growl. They appeared to be on very cordial terms.
I pushed myself into bush next to the walk. Twigs rammed through my gut and lungs, branches pinned my arms. Though I didn't need to breath, my lungs felt constricted, as if there wasn't enough air. If I could have sweat, despite the cool day I would have felt it trickling down my forehead and back. I made myself stand very still, blending into the bush, fading with the light.
Though Mr. Potter wore different glasses that day—white rimmed, very European—they didn't help him see me.
Or he never would have brought Betsy out of his bag.
* * *
I waited until full night before I went to beard the magician in his own den. I wanted him to see me this time. I'd wasted away the rest of the afternoon in a park, sitting on an isolated bench, facing the trees. No other ghost came by, just a wind that made the living shiver and the trees dance. I had no arguments planned. I just wanted to finish this. Get Betsy and run.
Of course, it wasn't going to be that easy.
The windows of Mr. Potter's house that looked out over the street were leaded in the upper part: old glass that ran with time, looking heavier than it ought to. When I drew near I figured out why. Mr. Potter's house had protections similar to Mr. A—. Someone had drawn lines of protection around every gray shingle on the walls as well as the lead of the windows. Knotted rope lay against the foundation, salt infused to its core.
I walked around the house, keeping to the stone walkway, not daring to step off it in case there were other traps I didn't see.
The crack in the house's protection was deliberate. The door to the root cellar had been left bare.
No choice but to go in that way. I flowed through the door but didn't step onto the floor. Who knew what kind of sigils had been engraved there?
However, I was overly cautious. The neat tile floor of the laundry room held no chalk, paint or dried chicken blood. A navy blue washer and dryer sat in one corner and Mr. Potter sat in a chair next to them, reading something on a tablet. "I've been expecting you," he said, putting his reading material down and standing. "I need to pay you the rest of your fee."
"You lied to me," I told Mr. Potter's retreating back.
"Not a big lie. Not really. Toni did steal the stone from me, to help me shore up my defenses. Mr. A— had bet me that no one could beat his, which more than made up the fee I'm paying you."
Only then did Mr. Potter realize I hadn't followed him. I'd seen too many sigils and curses in his buddy's house. I wasn't going to be caught again.
"Don't you trust me?" Mr. Potter said, seemingly aggrieved.
"No, I don't. Now give me Bet—my camera. And never contact me again."
A loud human groan came from behind the door Mr. Potter had opened. He gave me an odd, half smile. "That might be someone hurt. You should go see."
I stayed where I was. If there was a person in there, I couldn't do anything for them. I couldn't touch them. Chances were the presence of a ghost wouldn't comfort them, either.
Another groan slithered through the air.
"Damn it Potter, what are you playing at?"
"Come see," he said, beckoning.
I should have left. Hell, I should have run as quickly and as far away as I could.
The third groan ended with a pained whimper.
Obviously, I had more humanity left in me than Mr. Potter because I flowed into the room.
A skinny, bearded, homeless man lay on a long table pushed against the far wall. He'd been stabbed in the gut. Blood pooled over the hands he had clenched to his abdomen. From my years on the force I knew it was already too late. He was bleeding out.
The door behind me slammed shut. Of course, the room was Sealed. Not a single crack that I could escape through.
"Hey, buddy," I said to the homeless man. His eyes were glazed over and he couldn't see me. Couldn't hear me. I reached out my hand, but I knew if I tried to touch him with it, it would just sink through him.
"What now, Potter?" I asked, looking around. A single window sat high above me, with an ancient shoot underneath it. This used to be the coal room, I realized. More recently, it had held the firewood for the house. Split logs lay in neat piles across the other wall. A handy ax leaned against them.
I couldn't touch or manipulate anything in the room.
"Now, you leave." Mr. Potter's voice came in clear over hidden speakers.
"Afraid you're going to have to open the door," I told him. The floor was cement, but had been reinforced with lead, and was impossible to sink into.
"I don't have to. He will."
The homeless man coughed once, a death rattle. Hollywood has tried to emulate that sound for decades, but they'd never come close to the real thing. It was enough to give a ghost chills.
"Your kind is wrong," Mr. Potter continued. "You should all be forced to go Beyond, where you belong."
I hadn't taken Potter for a bigot. He worked for the dead.
No—he worked for their money.
"You don't really care about us, ghosts or the dead," I told him. "You just want to keep everything you've stolen from them. This is why your house is so protected, as well as Mr. A—'s. Your pious act is justification for your petty crimes."
Mr. Potter chuckled. "Very astute. However, my crimes are far from petty. You've seen my accounts?"
I had, as well as the contracts that signed everything over to his firm once the dead did pass Beyond. Shaking my head, I replied, "Petty." Ghosts never trusted the living completely. "None of them have given you full access to their resources."
"But the promise of a Disruption stone makes them much more amenable," Mr. Potter said smugly.
I scoffed. "Still a myth."
"No, I have—ah."
The homeless guy on the table had finally died.
I'd never seen a spirit rise before. This, I learned, Hollywood had gotten right. A younger, better-dressed version of the man sat up, pale, and, well, ghostly, while his body stayed on the table.
A portal to Heaven sprang up instantly. All bright blue sky and endless green fields—some kind of pastoral afterlife.
Would have bored me to tears. Still. Lucky bastard.
Without even a glance in my direction he swung his legs down and walked straight through.
As soon as he'd Passed, the portal turned black. Flames lined the arch and clouds gathered. I finally realized I was doomed. Mr. Potter had laid a clever trap. My only way out of this room was through that. Eventually I'd crack. Potter knew it. I couldn't resist forever, not in a locked room, not with that constant siren's call.
"Let me out, Potter," I told him one last time, unable to tear my eyes from the flames now licking outside the doorway.
"Go where you belong," Potter hissed.
"See you in Hell," I said.
Then I moaned.
I closed my eyes and put everything into it, giving voice to my unearthly displeasure.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Potter said.
He didn't sound panicked. Not yet.
I moaned, repeatedly, louder and louder, sending waves of sound through the foundation of the house, through the walls, shaking the core of all who heard.
"Stop!" Potter screamed.
I didn't.
Mr. Potter had forgotten that ghosts are creatures of the dead.
Though we prided ourselves on adjusting to modern life, at our core, we still did one thing best. And that was: haunting the living—terrifying them.
Sometimes to death.
* * *
A ringing knock on the door finally made me scale back my yowling. I didn't know how long I'd been there, singing the songs of the dead. The flames of the portal danced in time with me, cackling hellfire, pleased, I think, with the terror I'd reigned down.
One of the officers who I'd met once when I'd been alive, stuck his head in the door. "Hey, Andy."
"Ed."
He took out his earplugs then led the way out of the room and upstairs. He spoke as he walked. "Potter ran into the street and directly into an oncoming car. He's at the hospital now. Unconscious. They don't know if he'll regain consciousness." Ed didn't look at me.
I hoped the bastard died while dreamed of my haunting.
"The whole thing is taped here," Ed told me, leading me into Mr. Potter's study and showing me the four large plasma screens on the desk. "We know it was self-defense. You'll still have to come down to the station and give a statement."
"Fine by me." Potter's study didn't hold as many artifacts as I thought it might. The only one I wanted to see was Betsy, and there she was, waiting for me.
Ed didn't say anything as I scooped her up.
He couldn't see the small, heavy rock sitting next to her, or how I picked it up as well.
By the time I finished at the station, late afternoon had come again, with familiar clouds and rain. I had the officer drop me off at Volunteer Park, making my way directly back to Lakewood Cemetery. I walked through the wet grass, remembering its former brilliant green. More trees stood bare now—must have been a storm the previous night. I nodded to a few of my fellow ghosts, whispering to each other near a grave, then made my way alone to a bench where I could watch the flickering portals.
The stone weighed heavily in my pocket. Cold, too, like a frozen piece of night.
Or maybe not night, but nightmare.
Pious didn't buy you Heaven. Being a bastard didn't necessarily mean Hell, either. You had to believe in good, as well as do it, was the theory of the day.
Me, I'd been a pessimistic bastard all my life, as well as far into my death.
I don't know why I tried to change my luck. When I walked to the nearest portal it flickered, growing dark. I watched the unending flames, the hungry clouds, then finally tossed the stone inside.
Unlike a real stone, it didn't land on the other side, but stayed somewhere Beyond.
Nothing changed until I turned to go.
Suddenly, sunlight shone through the gateway. My beloved city of Seattle lay stretched out on the other side. My heart ached to be there, to go home. Without stepping through I knew it would be perfect. I would know everyone I met, and if I didn't, they'd still be friends. There would be good food and wine, endless talk and laughter pocketed with quiet time in the hills and on the water. There would be books and time to read them, music and dance whenever I wanted.
I still walked away.
It wasn't mine. I hadn't earned it. I couldn't be bought. Not then, not now.
I turned back to the gray Seattle day, knowing I'd never win that clean, beautiful city, but I still had to try.
Author's Notes
The night before the challenge started I had gone out with someone, and had talked a lot about ghosts. I knew I'd wanted to start with a ghost story. When I went to bed, that was all I knew. When I woke up, most of this story was there. The bit about the shredding of the veils came first, then Andy and being a PI. It flowed together quickly, a good start to the challenge.
Magpie
The crisp fall air rushed Sarah along as she walked home from the bus stop. Yellow and red leaves lay scrunched up along the edges of the sidewalk, like tiny fences of color, separating the gray concrete from the lush, green grass. Sarah's old craftsman house stood at the top of the hill, waiting for her, a warm blue against the cloudy sky.
Sarah always wondered if her house slumbered while she was away. She knew it was silly; yet, it always seemed to breathe out when she opened the front door coming back from being at the office all day. The wood floors creaked louder as the house settled in for the night if she'd been gone for a while on a business trip. When she spent time cooking, the air vent for the stove would hum in approval, even when no wind blew.
A few of Sarah's friends didn't care for how her house sounded, or how it stood, head and shoulders above the others on the hill. They weren't comfortable with no nearby neighbors. They labeled her house as "spooky," particularly at night. Sarah knew better: it was just an old house, set in its ways. The separateness of it suited her.
Today Sarah carried two heavy pails of refractory mortar. The list of projects that needed doing in an old house was endless, and this weekend it was finally time to fix the firebox of her fireplace. She hummed in anticipation of sitting in her living room, curled up on her red velvet couch with her cat Mr. J, a cup of tea, a good book and a roaring fire.
The first step, according to the Irish chimney sweep Sarah had hired to clean out the chimney and make it safe, was to remove as much of the old mortar from the firebox that she could. It was easy at the start: the old mortar crumbled like dry sand as she dug at it. Moving from the back to the sides, the old mortar clung more tenaciously to the brick. Sarah switched from just her hands to a thin, metal scraper, working under the mortar and flicking off chunks.
The job got progressively harder. Sarah had to put all her weight behind the scraper to dig into the mortar. She got a hammer and started tapping the end of the scrapper, feeling like some old-time sculptor. Smaller and smaller chunks fell as she got closer to the front edge of the firebox.
After Sarah hit her hand with the hammer for the third time, she finally just swung it against the wall of the firebox. To her surprise, the mortar crumbled and fell easily. A dust cloud rose when it hit the floor. Coughing, Sarah blindly swung the hammer again.
Instead of the dull thud of striking mortar, a higher, sharper clang rang out, following by a tinkling sound, almost like broken glass. Sarah waved away the dust so she could see the damage she'd done.
The brick Sarah had struck had cracked, like a broken mirror. Shards of brick lay scattered on the floor. Gingerly Sarah started cleaning out the remaining pieces, already thinking furiously about how to fix this. Did a fireplace require different brick, or could she use the leftover brick she had in the backyard? Would the refractory mortar hold it? Or did she have to call a mason?
Finally Sarah stopped and looked at the hole she'd made.
Just the front of the brick had cracked: behind that was an empty space.
The brick had been hollow.
Sarah fetched a flashlight and gloves. The floorboards creaked as she walked, and the house moaned. It shivered, as if a storm wind buffeted it, but the trees outside stood silent and unmoving. She wondered if her house was throwing a fit because she'd hurt it, hitting it with the hammer.
Something lay nestled far to the back of the hollow brick. Sarah carefully teased it out with her fingertips, as her whole hand wouldn't fit into the space.
A tiny, porcelain blackbird turned out to be the hidden treasure. It stood with its head tilted to one side, as if questioning the world. It looked hand painted. Whisker-thin brown lines delineated the feathers of its wings and the ridges of its gold, splayed feet. Its tail stuck out behind it at a jaunty angle.
Who would hide such a thing? Inside of a brick, in a fireplace? Sarah turned it over carefully. No stamp or maker's mark marred its perfectly smooth belly. She ran her finger along its cool skin, but couldn't feel anything either. She'd have to take a picture of it and send it to her brother—he collected antiques, maybe he'd know something of the bird's origin.
Sarah thought about putting the bird up on the mantel, but she didn't trust Mr. J to not knock it down. Plus, she wanted to move it away from the fireplace, where it had been trapped for who-knows how many decades. She ended up putting it on a shelf above the kitchen table, where it could look out the window at the garden. Then, singing the old Beatles' song about blackbirds, she went back to work, removing the old mortar, cheerfully swinging her hammer and causing constructive mayhem.
That night, birdsong accompanied all Sarah's dreams.
* * *
Two mornings later Sarah searched high and low for the watch she'd been wearing the night before. She could have sworn she'd taken it off and put it on her dresser, next to her other watches. She picked them up one at a time, ticking off the memories: bracelet-type watch that was surprisingly comfortable—a birthday present from her brother; ten year anniversary watch from her job, with a real leather band that kept the best time; the delicate diamond watch her mother had worn every Sunday to church. But her most recently acquired watch, from Jon, her boyfriend, wasn't there.
Sarah pawed through drawers, both in her bedroom and in the bathroom, checking to see if she'd taken it off and maybe it had fallen, but to no avail. She went back downstairs to the kitchen: maybe she'd taken it off while washing dishes the night before and just didn't remember.
The kitchen looked the same as it had when Sarah had gone to bed, the clean dishes stacked next to the sink, the table empty of placemats because she still had to wash them. Mr. J sat expectantly next to his bowl, waiting not so patiently to be fed. Sarah ignored him while she examined the counters and pulled out the drawers, still looking for her watch. Jon was coming back that night from a conference—she really wanted to wear it for their dinner.
A questioning meow from Mr. J finally brought Sarah out of her frenzied search. "Yes, yes, I'll feed you." She moved to the refrigerator then stopped, hand paused over the handle.
There, on the shelf above the kitchen table, next to the little blackbird, sat her watch.
"How did this—I don't remember putting this up here." Sarah retrieved her watch and snapped it easily around her wrist. When she looked up, she could swear the blackbird stared at her with something other than curiosity.
"Sorry, this is mine," Sarah told it. Then she giggled, feeling self-conscious. "You can't have it," she added in mock seriousness.
Sarah thought about how her watch could have gotten onto the kitchen shelf while she fed Mr. J and then made her own breakfast. She couldn't quite decide how she'd done it.
No matter. Sarah had her watch now. And she was going to miss the bus if she didn't hurry.
* * *
Sarah generally wore her rings all the time, never taking them off: her silver thumb ring with garnets because it was difficult to remove, and the green and gold ring she wore on her forefinger because it had been made for her and fit perfectly. However, since the autumn leaves had finally finished falling, she'd decided to bleach the stains out of her wooden deck. The thumb ring didn't work well with her gloves, so she took both rings off.
Then promptly lost them.
After tearing through the house again, Sarah checked the shelf in the kitchen sooner this time. There her rings sat, nestled together.
"I didn't put these up here," Sarah murmured as she lifted them down. She stared at the tiny, porcelain creature. It didn't look abashed at all. "You're not a blackbird at all, are you? You're a magpie. Always stealing shiny things."
Though Sarah felt silly, she still had to prove it to herself. That night she very deliberately placed her rings on her dresser. She then wrote herself a post-it note, telling herself what she'd done. She found them on the blackbird's shelf the next day.
Sarah didn't know why she didn't throw a fit at that point. It seemed a game to her. The little porcelain bird was probably bored, with only the window to look out of. She didn't expect any harm to come of it.
Besides, if Sarah had a magical bird, she didn't feel so odd thinking that her house might be just a little magical as well.
The next night Sarah dug through her jewelry box until she found the tiny engagement ring of her grandmother's. It was made of white gold, unadorned, with her grandparents' initials and the date, 1/14/1922 on the inside. "I can't wear it," she explained to the bird. "I take after my dad and my hands are far too big. But you can have it." She placed the ring on the shelf, right in front of the blackbird.
Of course, Sarah's watch was still missing from her dresser the next morning.
* * *
Sarah agreed to a "quiet night in" the next weekend with Jon. She'd cook dinner, they'd watch TV or play cards, and then he'd spend the night. She suspected that the weekend was the first in many, to see how they got along over many hours or days together, to see if they did want to move in together at some point.
The problem was that Sarah loved her house, and it was hers. She'd paid for it with the inheritance she'd received from the death of her parents. She never wanted to leave it, and she wasn't certain she wanted to share it. However, for the night, Sarah was willing to try. It wouldn't be the first time she and Jon had had sex, but they'd always slept apart.
Sarah really didn't think about the blackbird until after they'd finished dinner, when Jon noticed it sitting on the shelf above the table in the kitchen. "What's this?" he asked, picking it up and holding it out to her. "I didn't know you collected birds."
"I don't." Sarah explained where she'd found the small statue. She didn't explain about the strange game they played with her jewelry.
"It's lovely," Jon said, smiling at Sarah. "Suits you, too."
Sarah had to give him a kiss in response to that. As she turned away, Mr. J was suddenly there. Sarah tried to step to the side but her feet got tangled, and she grabbed Jon's arm to stop her fall.
The bird landed on the floor and scattered into ten thousand pieces.
Jon apologized more than once. Sarah did as well. Jon tried to help, but ended up slicing one of his fingers on a sharp shard. Sarah shooed him from the kitchen and cleaned up, mourning the little bird, sad that it had gone, still unsure of its story. Then Jon came back and distracted her from her sorrow for the rest of the night.
In the morning, Sarah only remembered the bird when she found her watch sitting exactly where she'd placed it. It was a few more days before she remembered leaving her grandmother's ring on the kitchen shelf.
Only it was gone. Sarah laughed at herself, wondering if the bird had taken one last bright, shiny thing with it. She shook her head over her own ridiculousness.
Yet, Sarah never found the ring.
* * *
"Who's that?" Sarah asked as Jon took her hand, leading her away from the now-closed apartment door.